


buzzing in my ear, buzzing in my brain

by tekuates



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekuates/pseuds/tekuates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie sees the girl a few seats down, a tall drink of water wearing a skirt and sweater, hair falling out of a bun.</p>
<p>Notes are spoilery for the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	buzzing in my ear, buzzing in my brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maidenjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/gifts).



His friends always ask him why he even comes to this dive, crappy little bar with dim lighting because the lights are so old they’re always on the verge of going out, or maybe to hide the grunginess of the place, or a combination of the two, and Richie says every time, “It’s the atmosphere, man, there’s something about it.” And he’s kidding around to get them off his back, because the reason he goes there is because no one else does, but it’s also true. There’s something about the place.

Today is like any other day; Richie walks into a bar – every time he comes into this place he thinks that phrase, thinks _Richie walks into a bar_. It’s the setup to a great joke, or an exceptionally terrible one, which are the two categories his jokes fall into.

Anyway, he comes inside and takes a seat at the bar, the darkest corner. He doesn’t come here to drink, or to work, or to talk, or even to watch the people, though he does do all those things. He just likes to be here. The jukebox is playing, Elvis singing _I got stung by a sweet honeybee, oh, what a feeling come over me…_

Richie sees the girl a few seats down, a tall drink of water wearing a skirt and sweater, hair falling out of a bun. She's not drinking anything, just leaning over a notebook, alternating between furious scribbling and staring off into space. She must be a student; right age and everything, and who else goes around with textbooks and stuff? Richie, without taking time to think about it, stands and slouches over to the stool next to her.

"Hey, you go to University of Maine?"

She looks up at him with a startled jerk. Her hair is coming down, and a piece of it falls into her eyes. "What?" she asks.

"Um," Richie says, fumbling slightly. "The university. You go there? Me too. I mean, if you do. I'm Richie. Rich." It's something he's trying out. It sounds adult, mature - Rich, the guy who really has it together. And it certainly relates to his hopes for the future.

She smiles, an awkward half-smile that might mean she’s shy, or maybe just that she wants to be left alone. "Beverly. And yeah, I do. Working on my notes right now. Why don't you sit down?"

Richie, who has been hovering next to her, not sure what to do, gladly takes a seat. "I've never seen anyone from the uni here. I mean, it's such a junkhole. Most of them avoid it."

"Junkhole it may be," Beverly agrees, her lips twisting bitterly, "but it's a junkhole I can afford. Hey, don't worry about it - " as Richie begins to stumble over an awkward apology " - I don't mind. I know it's a dive."

"Afford, what do you mean afford," Richie says, still a bit red in the face. "You're not even drinking anything. C'mon, let me buy you something."

“Buy me something? It’s two in the afternoon!”

“So what, we’re in college, let’s live a little. C’mon,” Richie says, who had in point of fact forgotten that it was early afternoon.

She half-laughs, turns toward him on the seat. "Alright by me. I'll take whiskey."

“Oh _ho_ ,” Richie says, only partly faking being impressed, and signals to the bartender for the whiskey, “A whole lot of woman, a _whole lot_ of woman. Drinks whiskey neat, smokes three packs an hour, and still so _dee_ lightful.”

“Shut it, why don’t you. And I’ll have you know I only smoke _two_ packs an hour.” Beverly holds her composure for a moment, then lets out a decidedly girlish giggle. The whiskey arrives in a tumbler, and she wraps slender fingers around it.

“You gonna look at it, or you gonna drink it?” Richie asks, sort of mesmerized by her hand tapering to the fingers, to the wrist.

Beverly shoots him a wry glance. “Beep-beep, Richie,” she says, and swallows the whiskey in one gulp, head thrown back, throat a long line. Richie has a moment where he feels like he’s had cold water thrown in his face, or, not quite that, a sharp, unpleasant electric feeling of _what the hell did you just say_ – but Beverly twists her face into the most absurd expression and starts coughing as the whiskey goes down, and he loses the thread of the thought.

“You lie, you _lie!_ ” Richie says gleefully. “You, Beverly-my-girl, are not a whiskey drinker. Why, I’ll be damned if you smoke even _one_ pack an hour.”

She coughs one more time, makes a pout of disgust. “Alright, I was trying to be cool. Didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

“Well, you know, practice makes perfect,” Richie says, and raises his hand to the bartender.

A few hours and many whiskeys later, Beverly and Richie stumble out of the bar. Richie, in his effort to keep up with Beverly, is rather drunker than he planned.

“Beverly,” he says, the word falling loose out of his mouth. “Beverly, Beverly, Beverly. Can I call you Bev? Bevvie?”

“Jeez, you’re a pain,” says Beverly, who is drunk, but not as drunk as Richie. “Why don’t you shut up a moment and concentrate on walking? It’d be easier for both of us. C’mon, Richie, stop leaning on me. We’re gonna get arrested or something.”

Richie takes a moment to stare at Beverly, whose hair, which he had taken for brown in the bar, is actually a sparking red. Then he says, “You know when we built the dam? Just this kind of weather. Except that was at the beginning of summer and this is s’posed to be fall.” He tilts his head back a little bit, lets the sun fall warm on his face.

“Nah,” Beverly – Bev says. “I wasn’t there, remember? You guys told me about it. You and your Irish Cop voice. You’ve gotta work on that, Richie, it’s terrible.”

Richie feels almost sober for a moment, says, “The turtle – “ Then the whiskey washes over him and he says, confused, “What was I saying? I don’t – “

“You’re drunk,” Beverly said, but she looks worried – no, scared. But abruptly the expression is gone, like it was wiped away, and she looks loose and easy. “Though I don’t remember you making a lot of sense when you were sober either.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Richie says, amiable. “C’mon, let go, I can walk.”

“If I let go, you’re gonna fall in a ditch and die.”

Richie takes a moment to think about that. “Okay, you may have a point. But we’ve been here a while, I’ve gotta get back. Hey, what’re you doing?”

“I’ve got some stuff to do in town,” Beverly says, “and unlike you I’m actually sober enough to do things by myself right now. Look, there’s a bus stop up the road. If I get you there, am I gonna be seeing your face on a ‘Missing’ flyer?”

“I’ll be fine,” Richie says, and Beverly begins steering him towards the bus stop. “But hey, Beverly, we should spend some time together, maybe even sober.”

They reach the bus stop and she sits him down on the bench. “Yeah, sure thing. Here, I’ll write down my number for you.” She fumbles around in her bag for a notebook, writes _Beverly_ and her number down on the corner of a page, and rips it out. Richie reaches out a hand for it, and she says, “I don’t think so, Rich, I don’t want you losing my number on a bus full of strangers,” and stuffs it in his front pocket.

“I wouldn’t have,” Richie says, well aware that this is a blatant lie.

“Yeah, whatever. Okay – “ as the bus pulls up “ – get on, and don’t throw up on anyone.”

Richie waves a dismissive hand at her, and saying, “See you, Beverly,” he boards the bus.

…

The next day Richie finds the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. _Beverly_ , it says, and a phone number, and Richie frowns, thinking, _Beverly?_

He tries to remember someone named Beverly, and for a moment images flash through his mind, red hair and dim light, the bus pulling up – and for one second, a sharp sliver of glass cutting into his palm. But then the images disappear, and Richie is left bewildered.

“Jeez, how much did I drink yesterday?” he mutters, and tosses the piece of paper into the trash.

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello there! I loved your prompts for _It_ , and combining Richie/Bev with the characters in their years in between childhood and adulthood, when they have no or fading memories of each other led me to a thought that really interested me: What if Bev and Richie met during these years, not once but _many times_? This is the fic that followed; one time they met and then forgot each other. But I imagine them meeting many, many times, falling in love or becoming friends or both, only to forget soon after. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it! Happy Yuletide!


End file.
